


Let's Meet Again in Hell

by Haruka_1224



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Widowtracer if you squint, not canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7317280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haruka_1224/pseuds/Haruka_1224
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So stand by your glasses steady,<br/>The world is a web of lies,<br/>Here’s a toast to the dead already,<br/>Hurrah for the next one who dies!"</p>
<p>Tracer revisits the memorial dedicated to the pilots she flew with in the First Omnic Crisis, recalling the days before she joined Overwatch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Meet Again in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Blizzard has not given a lot of information about Tracer's life prior to her recruitment into Overwatch, so I took the initiative to fill in the blanks. Please forgive any inaccuracies in writing, English is not my first language!

It had been years since the last time she had been here, it made Tracer feel almost guilty enough for it to show. Ever since Overwatch had disbanded, she had rarely left King’s Row, tied down by the anti-Omnic violence that plagued her city. From the crack of dawn to the depths of midnight, Tracer would roam the streets to combat sectional violence, saving Omnics and humans alike. She could barely afford four hours of sleep every day, let alone take a train down to central London to visit a monument.

The Pilot’s Memorial, a concrete cenotaph bearing the names of thousands of Britain’s pilots killed in the First Omnic Crisis; the last time Tracer had seen it, every inch of it was still gleaming. Now, it was stained, aged, streaked by the rain and worn by the wind. How many years had it been, four, almost five? Gosh, that made her feel awfully old.

Leaning forward, Tracer gently wiped the dust off the names she knew with her fingertips, whispering them under her breath as she went.

ALLEN, CHRISTOPHER - He really hated Omnics, Chris did; he lost his entire family to them when the fighting first broke out. Filled with the burning passion of a broken man, he was too intense for most of the base, except her. She would always bring him tea and try to include him in conversations, even if it rarely succeeded.

ALLEN, OLIVER - He was an awfully sullen fellow, old Oliver, always frowning and brooding in a corner. One of the oldest pilots, he was not very happy to see a youngster like her flying Britain’s flag on her shoulders. It didn’t take very long for her to grow on him, and they were like a grumpy grandad and his precocious grandchild.

ATKINSON, RILEY - Ah, he was quite the sweet chap, Riley was, had a wife and a little girl he loved more than the world. Tracer used to listen to him as he rambled about them, showing off photographs. He had asked her about her own family, once, and quickly learned never to make that mistake again.

BARNES, EVELYN - She was like a mother to their unit, dear Eve, fretting over everyone’s irregular sleep patterns and scolding them for drinking too much every night. She would often rip a dirty jacket or shirt off someone and wash it on the spot, grumbling about how soldiers always let hygiene go first, much to everyone else’s bemusement. Tracer would sometimes help her, even if she too was guilty of wearing the same pair of underpants for longer than acceptable.

BATES, ALFIE. BROWN, JAMES. BUTLER, ELIZABETH. CARNEY, AUSTIN. COPPERFIELD, ADELE. COTTRELL, RYAN. DALBY, OWEN. DAVID, EMILY. DAVID, FINLAY. EMMERSON, THOMAS...

Before she knew it, Tracer found tears streaming down her cheeks, a pained smile tugging at the edges of her lips as she remembered her fallen comrades. She had forgotten how much she missed them, having been too busy to even think, and acute longing hit her like an enraged Winston to the gut.

Suddenly, an old song popped into her mind, a song she hadn’t thought of in years, a tune she had not expected to remember. Under her breath, she sang it, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.

"So stand by your glasses steady,  
The world is a web of lies,  
Here’s a toast to the dead already,  
Hurrah for the next one who dies!"

She had made that up the night after one of the worst missions of her career, unaware that it would quickly become a base tradition. That day, a large number of Omnics had cornered a city in the outskirts of Britain and were indiscriminately killing civilians on the street. In response, Central Base sent a fleet of 18 fighters and 12 evacuation aircraft, the largest number of planes ever sent out to a single location. Tracer had been second-in-command of the fighter jets, tasked with eliminating every single Omnic within the city and to prevent them from moving forward.

They succeeded, of course, Tracer’s brilliant track record meant she had never failed a mission during her years of service. However, casualties were so great that they barely could call it one - 8 of the evacuation craft were downed, almost half the city's population was lost and 12 fighters did not return to base.

And the second they landed, battle-weary and heavy-hearted, they were instructed to fly again in an hour, to aid the Scottish Air Force in taking down an Omnium. Exhausted and shell-shocked, everyone just wanted a stiff drink or three before passing out somewhere, and Tracer knew she had to find a way to lift her team’s spirits.

So she grabbed a glass, filled it to the brim with cola (it wasn’t a good idea to fly drunk) and said the first thing that came to her mind.

“So stand by your glasses steady,  
The world is a web of lies,  
Here’s a toast to the dead already,  
Hurrah for the next one who dies!”

Shocked, the team had stared at her, their eyes almost bulging out of their skulls.

It was Emily who first reacted, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips as she shook her head, “You’re off your rocker, Lena.”

“Come on,” she had replied, “We may be staring death in the face, but no one said we had to go quietly."

With a sigh, Emily had raised her own glass, touching it to Tracer’s. Slowly, hesitantly, the other survivors did the same, glasses clinking against each other.

In voices low and broken, they repeated:  
“So stand by your glasses steady,  
The world is a web of lies,  
Here’s a toast to the dead already,  
Hurrah for the next one who dies!”

With that, they downed their drinks in a single gulp, the faces of their slain comrades smiling faintly at them behind closed eyelids.

“Let’s meet again in Hell!” Tracer had shouted, slamming her glass onto the tabletop.

The call was immediately echoed, determination and fondness warring with pain and sorrow in their eyes. Despite the darkness they lay in, the bottomless pit they had fallen into, there was still a light to be found - a blinding light by the name of Lena Oxton. And though death was whispering their names, they would be damned if they let it claim them before the last of their breath left their bodies.

Smiling faintly, Oliver had clapped Tracer on the back so hard she bowled over; pretty sure that he had just dislocated her shoulder.

“Thanks, kid,” he said gruffly, eyes avoiding hers, “I bet they’ve already got quite the party waiting for us down there.”

Smiling, Tracer nodded in agreement, gently smacking his arm as she made her way to her fighter.

“Let’s get out there and die, old man.”

“Not before me, you won’t.”

Oliver had been right; his plane was the only one that did not return after that mission. He was downed in the thick of the fighting over Scotland, and his body was never recovered. It was a hard blow to stomach, losing a friend like him, but Tracer kept her head held high and her eyes bright, even though she felt her heart shriveling up within her.

Tracer was brought back to the present by a jarring pain in her knees; her legs had given way beneath her and sent her crashing to the ground. Pressing her palms to the dusty stone, she wept with the force of a person vomiting, a voice she could barely recognize as her own tearing into the night sky. She had hoped, almost desperately, to someday reunite with them in the depths of Hell, but it was no longer possible the way she was now. Dying was physically impossible for her, a ghost scattered through different timelines; she was trapped living a lonely half-life surrounded by death.

Suddenly, Tracer felt the ghost of a hand brushing across her shoulder blades, so gentle it was barely noticeable. Rocketing upright, she looked around her, surprised and a little spooked to find that she was completely alone.

Just as she was about to get up, she noticed a neatly folded, deep purple handkerchief next to her knee. Emblazoned in the corner was a little black spider with a bright red abdomen: the black widow.


End file.
